Issuu

front/backcoverart- portraitofjewlery-emaanqayyum editor’snote(p.1)

1. amorsalvaje-miasoto(p.2) 2. anopencraving-audreywang(p.3)

3. objectsinthemirror-emaanqayyum(p.5)

4. evolution-jovinazionpradeep(p.6) 5. apaperthinsystem-toniharrison(p.8)

6. forestfire-solacemorgia(p.10)

7. mystar...-claire(p.11)

8. oftherightword-brendagonzalez(p.13) 9. stars-darinamironova(p.14) 10. twistmyarm-khaliyarajan(p.16) 11. momentum-paulamilian(p.17)

12. kaliyanaagmardan-rishansathiyaa(p.37) 13. 3supplementstostarttheday-pheebleezheeblee(p.38) 14.

EDITOR’S NOTE

they say a broken mirror is right twice a day and i tell them that dungeness press comes out four times a year. it’s a non-sequitur but shilling your literary magazine comes with considerable damage to your reputation.

fall is the most written about season for a reason. it’s a moment that can be described, authors are forever fascinated with change, and the changing in seasons is no exception. how do you know when you’ve changed? with our bodies perpetually running from stasis, you only realize change when you look back and see a stillness behind you. but at that point eurydice has already faded.

authors are obsessed with change. and we talk about the changing in the seasons. in the colours of the leaves. our coffee getting colder. we talk about change because it’s so hard to talk about it in ourselves. the artists in this issue have tackled something ironically permanent: change. the moment in which you read this will pass, but the moment where you remember it is waiting in the wings.

- rishan sathiyaa, editor in chief

AMOR SALVAJE

M I A S O T O

para mi vato, chris

me tienes dando vueltas, mi vato, porque no sólo me estoy enamorando de ti a cada segundo - estoy cayendo en un lugar llamado

amor salvaje

for my friend, chris

you have me spinning, my friend, because i’m not just falling in love with you every secondi’m falling into a place called wild love

AN OPEN CRAVING

A U D R E Y W A N G

I. children are born ambitionless. their parents may push a rubber-handled spoon between their lips, or allow them to ladle their own destiny onto a salivating tongue and throw up.

II. it might be burdensome to watch a perturbed father’s fingertips whip white against speckled skin. good thing you are tangled between the spokes of a banister; wooden bars lining a staircase and the plastic melt of tears obstruct a bit of your view.

III. for each birthday you will wish upon wax sticks and Walmart cake

to shed all confinement to a house that looks less like home than swing sets in schoolyards. mechanically replaces your definition of motherly these days. a new routine for the woman: to scream, apologize, and call you downstairs for dinner.

IV. bodies only possess as much as they are filled with. meaning simply that we could not be vessels for our own burgeoning even if we tried. now, collect in your arms the pieces of yourself you have sheathed like corn stalks. unfastened floats your collarbone, your authenticity, and the battleground in between. as the heart swivels down a disposal drain, the head places its palm over the switch.

OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR

E M A A N Q A Y Y U M

EVOLUTION

I was once a little seed

Not knowing my potential

Waiting for life to reveal

What I could possibly do.

Someone watered my tiny head,

My lean sprouts began to grow.

I stood there, so fragile

Scared the wind would break me

Waiting for that time

My joy could be free.

I spent years drawing circles

Sprouting branches

From former holes

Birds sitting on me

Singing about their roles

Getting older with time

Gaining ages of wisdom.

I hovered in mystery

Until a person decided to cut me

And find out my worth.

He thought

I wouldn’t grow again

It would take too much time

But I can do it.

My wood can light Torches in the dark.

I can grow

To become Another.

A PAPER THIN SYSTEM

T O R I H A R R I S O N

You say you want to make the world a better place, when really you just want to change everything you think is wrong with it.

You’re all for Black Lives Matter, until you hear about what happens to be a black man getting killed by the cops for “resisting arrest”. Then you say he deserved it or that the cops saw a weapon, so it was “self defense”.

We have a broken system and it's like paper.

White and fragile.

You say there is so much hate in the world and that you’re full of love, until a person of color looks at you the wrong way.

Then they’re in handcuffs and you’re the victim. The hate starts with you.

The world will never change unless you do.

You act like we’re different but we’re not.

We have hair, skin, blood, and DNA just like you do.

So, why do you act like God didn’t make us too?

We are not abominations or punishments sent to you from below. We are visionaries, we are the next generation, and we are Genesis.

You need to change your mindsets,

so that people of color can stop getting killed over speeding tickets.

So that you are not so quick to judge the people who work for you. So that we can have equality, freedom and peace.

You see everything that is happening and you do nothing to stop it. Some of you are okay with it and others are not, but it continues all the same and by then it flourishes.

You need to understand that we are not going anywhere and it's better to join us than fight us.

Would you rather have our system be white and fragile? Or Colorful and Strong?

A paper thin system is so easily broken.

FOREST FIRE

S O L A C E M O R G I A

I have a reoccurring dream

Of a forest that’s catching on fire -

I don’t run to shelter in the stream

Or resign myself to the pyre

Because I’m not the fire

And I’m not the forest

And I’m not even a witness to the flames

I’m just some kid who saw it on the news

And too quickly forgot that the corpses had names.

MY STAR...

C L A I R E

If only I were a feather swinging in the air,

Soaring along the valley of my faith,

Shining in the darkness looming above the dome,

Reaching for the star, attaining the empire of Rome.

If only we could meet in every forgotten star

With a fragile flicker of hope combing our hearts, While somewhere afar

Streams of light, golden and enthralling, chasing for the soul

Would reclaim, in utter secret, a faint trace of smoldering coal

A hidden dream slipping through my fingers, shattering in a galaxy of broken oaths.

If only our sky turned into an endless novel

A cascade of lyrical verses and fallen prayers dedicated to our tale

A lachrymose odyssey

We would eventually reunite in this narrow realm under the fateful star

And silent tears – sobs of a discarded lover would grace Mother Earth,

Steps futile in order to reach the end of the wall.

f only I could still recall your piercing, restless sea,

A mirror resembling my blasphemy, a noxious destiny

I would finally comprehend the magical serendipity of a noble fool

And your memory would prevail in the corner, embracing the shadowy moon

A lingering touch on a thin lock of hair colliding in preposterous truth

Revealing the brightest star, a beacon of hope – a forget-me-not flower sparkling in doom...

If only the universes plastered with our being

Would break into withering chaos to unravel what was entwined

And from the cerulean sea, they’d uncontrollably descend into demure paradise

Giving birth to a fallen angel, a shower of fireworks - my solar pride.

And both of us, star-crossed lovers,

Ostracized on a little star, planet, or divine altar

Would startle at the steamy window soaked in raindrops - diamonds of the sky

Crying out in a strangled voice: “My star!”

OF THE RIGHT WORD

How to explain the girl who lives in dreams?

A stubborn word on the tip of my tongue;

Manifesting in agitated screams,

Yet a thought I can’t help but clutch while young.

Something so essential I fight to reach,

Grasping each corner of my lovesick mind;

Perfection unworthy of such meek speech, Her music the lilting, lullaby kind.

Still, through the sweetness of her melody, The utterance never fails to upset;

Her grasp remains from a distance lengthy, Following sirens my care risks regret.

For the name that floods each edge of my mind, I bear the pain of calling valentine.

STARS D A R I N

Oh you massive dancers, You connoisseurs of motion:

I watch you in the sky,

Twirling, laughing, glistening

Choreography set in stone

Trillions of years before my time.

Are you still there?

Do you still dance?

Or have you died

And left us to admire your echoes?

Oh you blinking ghosts, You memories of light:

Did you die quietly, Resigned to your fate?

Did you close your eyes

And fall asleep?

Or did hubris overtake you,

Did you consume yourself,

An ouroboros of energy?

Oh you blinking spirits,

You ghosts removed in time and space:

Tell me, if I, too, spend my life in motion,

Will I, too, dissolve into nothing,

Never knowing how my light

Led the hands of fate?

And when I die, will I face the same ferryman? Will he steal me as he stole you,

So quietly, the memories of me trick those around Into thinking I was with them still?

Oh, you…

Should I hope for this?

To be loved but never know it?

To have stories matter more

Than who I am?

Oh...

TWIST MY ARM

K H A L I Y A R A J A N

Take it, twist it

Like you do

You know how to get me to come to you

You are white

Your future’s bright

I’m brown

And stuck down

You know I won’t get there

Unless I let you in my hair

Grab my arm like a trophy

Twist it like a wet towel

You know how.

MOMENTUM

P A U L A M I L I A N

I was eighteen when I heard music for the first time. Before that, music was just unnecessary background noise. Until my roommate forced me to listen. My friends called me weird for not having a favorite musician. They insisted there had to be at least one singer I connected with, one genre I was swayed by. My answer was always the same: No.

Art in general never really spoke to me. I liked going to museums for the history, aesthetics, etc. But take me to the MET and show me a nineteenthcentury painting by some famous artist whose name I can’t pronounce, and you’ve lost me. Yeah, it’s pretty, but so is walking around my neighborhood under the light of a full moon. You don’t have to pay to admire that. There was a time when I was on the verge of honestly enjoying music. But those people weren’t in my life anymore. Maybe that was for the best, I still don’t know.

That all changed one winter night, at the start of my spring semester in January. I’d just moved back to my dorm after the winter break. I sat by my desk, organizing my notebooks, pencils, and other stationary in the wooden drawers. My roommate, Ethan, had gone out with a couple of friends. I figured he probably wouldn’t return until late, giving me a few hours to peacefully organize as much as I wanted. Ethan’s fuzzy brown blanket was crumpled and freshly laundered clothes were strewn all over the mattress.

His desk was swarmed with books, papers, and posters. I resisted the temptation to go over and organize it for him.

My assumption turned out to be wrong as Ethan walked inside five minutes later and headed over to me. He stood above my head for a few seconds, staring as I shoved folders inside the first drawer. An awkward smile lifted the corner of his lips, waiting for me to acknowledge him.

“Is there something you want?” I asked.

“So…I know this is really short notice…but can you do me a huge favor?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“My girlfriend and I were supposed to go to the jazz concert in Karlton theater, but she got sick with the flu this morning. And I hate going to this kind of thing alone. Why don’t you come with me?”

I shook my head, opening the last drawer on my shelf. “No. I’m busy.”

“You’re almost done unpacking! You literally just need to put stuff in drawers, and that takes less than ten minutes.”

“I don’t like jazz,” I said, standing up to retrieve my laptop from my backpack.

“I know, but this is worth it! They’re really talented musicians. Besides, the show is free for us. You’re seriously gonna miss out on a free show?”

“Don’t you have other friends who can go with you? You’re always going to concerts with them.”

“Yeah, but they…um…they don’t like jazz.”

I scoffed. “Big surprise.”

Ethan grabbed my arm. “Come on. The concert’s only an hour long.”

I moved to the window and opened the blinds. “Do you see the snow outside? Do you realize how cold it is right now?”

“That’s nothing for you. You literally go outside wearing bundles of clothing. You’re telling me you can’t do that now?”

“But what do I get out of this?”

“A new experience, a way to pass the time,” he answered, counting his fingers. “Sean, you spend all your time holed up in here reading.”

That was true. I didn’t care about the clubs here and packed the food from the cafeteria in containers so I wouldn’t have to continuously leave my dorm.

Reading New Yorker articles and pretentious 20th-century literature may have made me seem like an old man, but it was enough for me. Besides, it was just too much work to find a place to sit in a crowded dining hall and the possibility of running into her was too high.

Ethan’s brows were slightly raised and his eyes were wide with enthusiasm. The hope on his face wasn’t easy to dismiss. Ever since I’d met him in my freshman year of high school, he was always willing to do favors. Not just for me, but for everyone. Like there was this time in sophomore year when Lucas Herrera vomited his burger all over his gym clothes so Ethan let him borrow his. We were never the closest of friends, but he was the only guy who consistently tried talking to me even if others, including those I cared about most, got tired of me.

But I really, really didn’t want to leave the warmth of the dorm. I had my laptop for binging Adventure Time on this chilly night, a microwave to cook my ramen, and a decent bed to stretch my legs on. At the same time, I was losing nothing by going. Ethan rarely asked me for anything, besides remembering to buy more toilet paper.

“That’s nothing for you. You literally go outside wearing bundles of clothing. You’re telling me you can’t do that now?”

“But what do I get out of this?”

“A new experience, a way to pass the time,” he answered, counting his fingers. “Sean, you spend all your time holed up in here reading.”

That was true. I didn’t care about the clubs here and packed the food from the cafeteria in containers so I wouldn’t have to continuously leave my dorm.

“And bro, you owe me one after all the notes I gave you for bio last semester. Never would’ve passed the class if it weren’t for me,” Ethan said smugly.

“So you’re gonna resort to guilt-tripping now?”

Ethan laughed and put an arm around me. “Just come, will you? The show starts in a half-hour.”

I sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll go, I’ll go.”

I froze my ass off the entire seven-minute walk from my dorm to Karlton Theater. My teeth chattered, the tips of my fingers cried with pain, and I was starting to lose the feeling in my toes. I glanced over at Ethan, who had a stupid smile on his face, talking about how much he loved the snow. A cloudy sigh left my lips before my boots slipped on a patch of ice on the ground, leaving me wobbling for a solid second. Ethan gripped my shoulder, steadying my balance.

“Woah, that was close,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I considered the possibility of returning to my dorm and leaving him standing there in the cold. Or, even better, throw him on the huge pile of snow that rested beside our feet. His loud obnoxious laugh echoed across the empty campus, tempting me to grab a snowball and shove it in his mouth. I couldn’t stop thinking about how painful it was going to be to walk back in this less-than-desirable weather.

Being at the mercy of something greater and more powerful than you is very annoying, to say the least. Had we not finally made it to the doors of Karlton Theater, I probably would’ve been like “fuck it” and gone back to the dorm.

“Man, I wonder what they’re gonna play! The concert description said classics combined with the sound of future jazz. They better play some Duke Ellington.”

“I don’t know who that is,” I muttered as we stepped inside the wonderful warmth. My irritation melted away as my body relaxed from the frigid air it’d been forced to walk in. The box office was empty, because who the hell would come out in this weather for a jazz concert?

After getting our tickets, Ethan and I walked to the theater. An usher showed us our row. The theater was dark and a lot smaller than I expected it to be. A single light shone on the stage, which was already set up with a drum set, a large bass resembling a giant violin, a piano, and three stands of music. Resting on the velvet cushioned seats, I leaned my head back and predicted a nap coming along. Four people sat in the theater, six including Ethan and I. An old man dressed in a brown tux and brown fedora, two girls wearing elegant black dresses and bob cuts, and a middle-aged woman with a rigid posture in the row in front of us. She wore a fur coat of mink and big golden earrings. None of them looked like college kids, except for maybe the bob girls.

If I’d known what that meant or who that was, maybe I would’ve been intrigued. Instead, I got comfy in my seat and looked up at the gray ceiling and wall panels. My eyelids were heavy.

Ethan nudged my arm. “You better not fall asleep. I’m telling you, this is worth it.”

“Doubt it,” I mumbled. I’d heard jazz before on my mother’s speaker, and it wasn’t exactly thrilling or moving. She also told me that my grandfather used to be an incredible saxophone player, but all his old recordings were in my

grandmother’s house in California. It was pretty cool, but it wasn’t enough to get me interested in the music. To me, jazz sounded like a jumble of noise that repeated itself and went on forever. The musicians walked out onstage to their instruments. Four men and one woman with bright pink hair. She took her spot by the bass, while her bandmates walked to the stands, holding either a sax or drumsticks. The pianist straightened his tie as he sat by the piano. A short man with a balding head and horn-rimmed glasses stepped out on stage, and the audience clapped upon his appearance. He bowed to us and turned back to the musicians. His foot tapped on the floor four times, and the saxophone player blew his head off into the instrument for a whole minute. He paused. I furrowed my brows. His crazy trilling sounded like a car braking violently before it crashed. Everyone in the audience waited expectantly for him to continue, unfazed by the messy array of notes the sax guy just played. I sat there in utter confusion, unsure if the sax player was just terrifically bad or if this was an abstract beginning to the song. A laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. Either the audience was holding in their laughter or they thought this was an intellectual masterpiece waiting to be performed. Ethan looked at me with an embarrassed frown, but I couldn’t help chuckling. This is what Ethan was so desperate for me to see?

The sax player locked eyes with me. Oh shit, he heard me. I sat straighter in my chair and pressed my lips together. What if this was his first concert and he messed up out of sheer anxiety? What if he was going for something cool but it backfired? I wasn’t a stranger to those situations–who was I to judge? I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed by the stare he was giving me. If anything, it appeared almost aggressive.

He closed his eyes and blew again. This time, the notes made sense to my ears as he added something different. It didn’t sound as chaotic or have the intense trilling of before. The notes just sounded good together. But why had the sax guy decided to play something off-putting at the beginning? Maybe he was warming up, getting his breath and fingers ready for what was to come.

The pianist’s pulsating keyboard backed him up. Crisp drum beats joined in a fast-paced tempo. A steady bass rhythm drove the song as the player looked over at her bandmates, smiling softly. Sheet music was before them, but they glanced at it merely once or twice. How were they playing everything by just looking at their instruments? Had they memorized all this during rehearsals?

“They’re not reading their music,” I pointed out to Ethan. Ethan’s eyes were two giant lightbulbs shining on them. Without taking his gaze off them, he said, “Course not. It’s improvisation.”

“What?”

“They’re making it up as they go.”

If they were just improvising their music, then they were going off what they felt. What their heart was telling them to play. My mouth partially opened as I watched them. Their energy was something palpable, something tangible. I couldn’t look away even if I tried. I was used to seeing musicians play what they had to, almost robotic-like, during concerts my mom had taken me to when I was younger. I never saw any emotion go through their trained fingers and serious facial expressions. This…this was something I didn’t remember having seen before. But it was oddly familiar.

Fingers on the piano moved swiftly up and down the keys, improvising like

it was the last time they would ever grace the instrument, in a dance of their own. All the while a smile covered the pianist’s face as he did what he loved most.

Heat invaded my chest. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Their speed made me restless like I needed to get up and walk something off. Why? Watching their deep concentration and talent unsettled me. I was jealous of them. Jealous of how good they were, jealous of their talent, jealous that they were experiencing something I never had. Unrestrained, genuine passion.

Sax Man’s eyes were tightly shut as he went higher and higher with his golden instrument, his fingers dancing quickly. He moved back and forth with the sax, appearing as if he was riding an invisible wave that carried him deeper and deeper into the ocean. He blew rapidly without stopping, without ever opening his eyes. The other players nodded and beamed at him, probably just as blown away as I was. What was Sax Man visualizing? He was so deeply fixated on his instrument it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t seeing anything at all, just existing in that time and space.

The drummer was in conversation with the bass player. He played a rapid drum fill, his brows wrinkled in deep concentration, sweat pouring down his face. She responded with a bass solo climbing up and down the strings. The other instruments quieted down a bit as the drum and bass grooved with each other, making steady eye contact and bobbing their heads. It was a small and subtle communication I’d never seen before. I’ve heard people say that communicating doesn’t always involve words. Someone once told me that the most powerful forms of communicating are done silently.

Those words swirled in my head as I watched the performance unfold in front of me, reminding me of how I hadn’t been able to communicate like that since she left. Had I ever at all?

The drummer’s arms moved to each drum so quickly and naturally all I could do was sit there with my mouth open. The bass notes vibrated in my chest, the piano’s swift keys lifted a heaviness inside me, the drums made my heart pound faster, and the sax carried me into their journey. I wanted to ride that wave with them. I wanted to be part of the language they were speaking with each other, the language they were speaking with their instruments.

They sounded like they were ascending a flight of stairs. A fiery spiral staircase that took me to an alternate dimension, filling my eyes with different hues of orange, red, and yellow burning vibrantly. The sax player was one step ahead, the pianist was behind, the drummer was after him, and the bass player was last. But with every minute, they helped each other climb with one look. No one was trying to overpower the other.

The drummer clicked his symbols, daring each of them to go faster. Laughter overtook the bass player as the drummer matched the rhythm of her bass, carrying all of them to the top of the staircase.

They finished with deafening drumming, a ringing sax solo, passionate keyboard trilling, and a resounding bass note.

The four people in that theater clapped and cheered, Ethan being the loudest with his whooping. I just sat there, feeling strangely disoriented. The conductor introduced himself and the band, saying they were his best students and needed to be showcased. He said some other things too, but I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes couldn’t stop watching them.

Those words swirled in my head as I watched the performance unfold in front of me, reminding me of how I hadn’t been able to communicate like that since she left. Had I ever at all?

The drummer clicked his symbols, daring each of them to go faster. Laughter overtook the bass player as the drummer matched the rhythm of her bass, carrying all of them to the top of the staircase.

They finished with deafening drumming, a ringing sax solo, passionate keyboard trilling, and a resounding bass note.

I couldn’t stop watching the deep breathing of the sax player as he rubbed a sweaty palm against his dark pants. He’d given his all to that piece. He locked eyes with me, and I felt ashamed for laughing at the beginning. I mean, who was I compared to them? A guy who spent his time by himself in a cold dorm, too scared to leave because I didn’t want to run into people. How many people tried talking to me besides Ethan and my mother? Ever since my friends left, I could count on one hand how many people I’d had interactions with. Hadn’t I told myself I was better off alone doing the things I always did?

I suddenly understood why the musicians had seemed so familiar. The time when I was very close to sincerely digging music was when I still had my best friends around, Liam and Simone. The three of us had known each other since elementary school and had been together throughout high school. We’d applied to the same university to be together. Although I’d always been reserved and drawn to simple stuff like reading or crossword puzzles, they still stuck with me for some reason I wouldn’t understand. They were both passionate people. Maybe they liked how calm I was.

Simone and Liam got along well because they were both musicians. Liam was a guitar player and Simone was a jazz singer. Whenever they got into discussions about music or performing together, I’d tune them out. Some of the music they showed me was pretty good. I considered checking it out on my own time, but I always had better things to do.

I started dating Simone in the middle of the fall semester. It didn’t change the friendship we had with Ramone, we just started seeing him less. The first few weeks of us together were great. We talked for hours over phone calls and got to know each other more deeply than we ever had.

But while she made every effort to understand who I was, I didn’t do the same. She invited me to her concerts with the school choir, and to her open mic nights, and I only went to one of them. Simone subscribed to the New Yorker and proofread a lot of my fiction work, but I never stayed behind for her rehearsals. I never wanted to travel to New York with her and watch some of her favorite musicians. It was too much work for me, at the time, with me having to study ferociously for my exams and assignments. My thought process was, I’ve got so much shit to do as an engineering major, and she wants me to go to some stupid event?

The last straw was when I missed a train to her fall recital in Brooklyn. She headed to my dorm to confront me at midnight, the time she returned. Ethan and I had been rewatching Interstellar when she knocked loudly on the door. Too many things were said, too many things were brought up, but the main part I can’t get out of my head was this:

“This isn’t even about you being a good boyfriend. You were just a shitty friend,” she hurled at me, standing there with one hand on her hip and the other flailing around.

“Simone, I missed the train, what the fuck did you want me to do?”

“You could’ve taken the next one and gotten there late. At least you would’ve shown you cared. But no, you just came back here and stayed in your comfy bed. I bet you were relieved that you wouldn’t have to make such a long journey.”

“I said I was sorry, what more do you want from me? I’ll go to the next one.”

“This isn’t even about you being a good boyfriend. You were just a shitty friend,” she hurled at me, standing there with one hand on her hip and the other flailing around.

“Simone, I missed the train, what the fuck did you want me to do?”

“I said I was sorry, what more do you want from me? I’ll go to the next one.”

Simone shook her head and slapped her palms against her legs. “You just don’t get it, do you? You never wanna do anything that’s not comfortable for you. I’m your girlfriend, and you won’t even do the bare minimum.”

“What? I rearranged my entire work schedule for you!”

“Yeah, 'cause doing things in the morning instead of the night is so hard,” she retorted, her voice straining on the last word. Simone’s lower lip trembled. I got closer to her and touched her chin. Crying was the last thing I wanted her to do.

“I know, I know I messed up. Really, I’m sorry.”

She moved her eyes to the floor. “Sean, you know what Liam did? He showed up extra early and got me flowers cause I had a solo part at the end of the song. But you wouldn’t know that cause you weren’t there. He said he’d offered to go with you, but you didn’t want to go that early.”

“Okay, well–”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

Liam decided college wasn’t for him just after the fall semester. He dropped out and said, “Better things were in store for him.” His social media music account was growing more each day, and he was set on dedicating as much time as possible to it. I wasn’t surprised when I heard through the grapevine that he and Simone started going out during the end of winter break. And just like that, our friendship ended.

My eyes focused on the stage. How little I understood. I didn’t know what I’d just heard, but I didn’t care. I needed more.

“For this next song, I’ll be stepping down and letting them do their thing. These four talented kids wrote this one on their own, so frankly I feel quite useless in aiding them. Goodnight everybody, and I hope you join us again soon.”

The audience clapped for the conductor as he headed to the side of the stage partially obscured by the red curtain.

Sax Man looked over at the drummer, who gently clicked his cymbals. He brought the mouthpiece to his lips and gave the sax a new voice. A calming melody contrasted the intense fire that had previously consumed the theater. Sax Man’s eyes closed as sweat fell from his head to his shirt. His playing was no longer his own; it became a storyteller for us. The pianist’s pensive chords were stepping stones for whatever story the saxophone player wanted to tell. I’d imagined the previous song as a story about passion and excitement. What could I make of this cool, soft melody that brought an unfamiliar feeling to my chest?

It reminded me of warm spring afternoons with Simone and Liam in the park, laughing and walking around the lake. It reminded me of Simone’s soft touch. Her gentle fingers soothingly moved down my back and her lips kissed my neck, her head curled under my arm when she would sleep over at the dorm. She was one of the few people who made me feel like I was actually doing something. For a few moments, it was like I had a real passion in me, even if I didn’t know for what. The only other person who made me feel like that was my grandfather.

The cool, soft melody reminded me of evenings hanging out in his room, staring at the golden tenor sax he polished as he would talk to me about whatever–the weather, my parents, music. I would ask him to play something for me, and he did without hesitation.

How had I forgotten that?

The bassist’s brows furrowed as she concentrated on the sounds of the drumming, switching from soft to loud to match with the saxophone player. Their song took me far away from that theater. I was ten years old again, sitting on a wooden chair by my grandfather’s desk. Back when he was still alive, my mom and I would visit all the time. My grandfather’s room was pretty simple. Plain white walls, old wooden drawers holding a couple of family framed photos, and a small bookshelf with the bible and other philosophy books. He had a black box sitting by his bed, which my grandma told me never to touch because they were my grandfather’s records. He sat on the bed and played me a tune he loved. A smile was on my face the entire time he played smoothly and peacefully with his thin careful fingers. It was a calming melody with a few improvised soloing moments, as I now know. His eyes were closed. He finished and looked up.

“What did you think?”

I clapped as enthusiastically as I could. “What’s it called?”

“I honestly don’t know yet. Can you help me think of a name?”

“We should call it ‘Joon’s Song.’”

My grandpa’s chest rose and fell with heavy laughter. “You wanna name it after me?”

“Yeah! You were the one that made it, right?” I said, giggling. “Alright,” my grandpa answered, patting me on the knee. “Now, what else should I play for you?”

I didn’t know at the time, but my grandpa’s health had been failing. He’d gotten a stroke three days later and passed away. I tried my best not to remember him.

Ethan nudged me. “You alright?”

I blinked and raised a hand to my cheeks. Fresh tears were streaked onto them. How long had it been since I’d thought about that moment? How long had it been since I thought about my grandfather? Why had I let myself keep that precious memory locked away somewhere in the back of my mind? My heart jumped as I remembered something small, maybe even insignificant. Grandpa Joon had loved jazz.

I brushed the tears away with the back of my hand. “Yeah, I’m alright,” I mumbled. Ethan continued staring at me.

The musicians ended with a gentle fading of their sound, lightly disappearing into the background until all you could hear was the final note of the sax. The old man in the suit had his head tilted toward the ceiling, a peaceful smile settled on his face. The girls cheered ecstatically, their bobs going up and down. The middle-aged woman gave them a standing ovation, a grin brightening up her features. Ethan whooped and made the biggest racket of all with those large hands of his and his booming voice. Me, I sat there like an idiot with my arms lying at my sides, unsure of what just happened.

The musicians bowed and thanked everyone before walking out. Ethan and I silently headed out of the theater.

“So it wasn’t at all what you were expecting, right?” he asked, not looking at me.

“No, not at all. It was really good, thanks for bringing me.”

Ethan laughed and raised a fist in the air. “Ha! I knew it. I’m always right.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I managed with a small smile. My heart was still pounding from all the overwhelming feelings that poured over me.

I didn’t know what to say after I disrespected the genre. The only thing I knew was that I walked out of that theater feeling like I’d just discovered my sense of hearing. Like I’d discovered what I’d been doing wrong. I didn’t need music to survive, but I did know I needed it to feel complete.

Snow had started falling again, the air was still frigid, and the sky was as dark as ever. But the missing piece of my soul had returned to my body. I released a white cloudy breath and turned to Ethan, who faintly smiled with his hands in his pockets. I had been at the mercy of something greater and more powerful than me, but I couldn’t possibly consider it annoying.

Maybe I should find Simone and tell her that I wanted her to give me another chance, that I would honestly try this time. Maybe it wasn’t too late to try something new. It wasn’t too late to honor Grandpa Joon in some way.

“Let’s go back there and ask the Sax Guy how much lessons would cost,” I said.

KAILYA NAAG MARDAN

R I S H A N S A T H I Y A A

speak in my mother tongue as the little dark spots in my eyes shrink away as i emerge breathlessly from the foothill to the mountain where my family once lived when i was small. small and doe-eyed. i went back to feel alone there. to feel alone with myself and who i am and who i used to be. who my family used to be when i was one with them. when i danced on snakes and dreamt of a silence between the brown of my skin and the pink of my flesh. today i lumber through a cattle-field trying to find small me as my skin slowly returns to blue.

3 SUPPLEMENTS TO START THE DAY

Jon wakes up to find he had drooled on his pillow. He walks to the medicine cabinet & peers at himself. His hand goes to its edge. But his finger lingers. He’s not opening it, not yet. He peers at his eyes. Tries to look for something he hoped to find in Lindsey’s eyes. But cold. No love. He looks again. Cold. No love. He touches his fingers to the glass, like he hoped to caress her cheek. Cold. Not his. He remembers. That he is empty. He opens it & the man exists only an instant more. He takes the pills. Three supplements to start the day.

ABOUT THE DUNGENESS PRESS

The Dungeness Press is a literary magazine based in the Bay Area publishing work from writers ages 13-19.

We publish short stories, poetry, dramatic scripts, personal essays, media criticism, and select pieces of art.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

RISHAN SATHIYA

ART EDITOR

EMAAN QAYYUM

MANAGING EDITOR

BRENDA GONZALEZ

OUTREACH DIRECTOR

DARINA MIRONOVA WITH GUIDANCE FROM BRIAN GUAN

The Dungeness Press: Issue #5

TABLE OF CONTENTS